‘Shut up,’ said Ada.
Frankenstein pressed on regardless.
‘If you ask me, I think we should reserve it for an after tea stroll on Sunday. Our innkeeper tells me he expects good weather on Sunday...’
‘Foxglove, make him shut up.’
‘No, milady,’ said he. ‘It’s for your own good...’
Which was a turn up for the book. It impressed her more than anything Reason or Frankenstein had to say. Nimble as a ballerina, Ada re-evaluated her options.
‘We could get a ship,’ she suggested, burying Foxglove’s slave rebellion in silence. ‘Risk the Channel again...’
‘No,’ said Julius—and he had never sounded firmer.
‘No,’ said even Foxglove.
Ada thought on and remembered.
‘No,’ she agreed. But then: ‘Yet we have got to get through somehow.’
For a space, Frankenstein deluded himself he had an ally in Foxglove, but when he looked across at the man his gaze was avoided.
So, here he was alone again: the most unlikely ever ambassador for sanity.
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why must we?
‘I refer you to the Council of Box Hill,’ snapped Ada. ‘It was all dealt with there. I got the distinct impression you were present...’
Indeed he had been. He’d not had voting rights, but he’d been an observer. And therefore complicit in the lunatic resolutions passed.
Julius Frankenstein looked behind him. There lay Belgium and, beyond it, using the eye of faith, Holland. Two statelets too crazed with commerce to realise the state they were in. Come the day the Convention could abide their offensive bourgeois presence no longer, they would be swept away in an afternoon: toy armies and all. It wouldn’t even take Bonaparte himself, but just one of his galaxy of star-generals, to deal with them in short order.
They would be juicy plums to pick. What little Julius had seen confirmed the legend that the Low Countries had exploited Lazaran economics about as far as they would go—even to the far side of the world in fact.
Belgic and Netherlands Lazarans dug dykes and forced the sea back, field by field, careless of casualties. Their treadmill power turned the windmills which dotted that reclaimed land. Then the money that earned bought merchant ships for which Lazarans were shipwrights, dockers and crew; making and ‘manning’ a fleet that carried forth manufactured goods and brought back riches. Naturally, or perhaps unnaturally, it was Lazarans who laboured twenty-four hours a day, chained to benches in the factories that made those manufactured things. Word was there were even undead explorer ships, completely expendable of course save for a living captain to report back, sent to seek out new lands—and markets.
In short, this was the virtuous economic circle that had let the Republics scale the moral high-ground and abolish slavery. They were bursting with the prosperity that came from bursting open the grave.
In the few short hours he’d graced Belgium with his presence, Frankenstein had seen as many Lazarans as living humans; perhaps more. Reports said Holland was worse. They were asking for trouble of course: sooner or later some Revived Spartacus would do the arithmetic and rise up, but in the meanwhile there was a lot of money being made. The French Convention, for all it was supposedly above things like worldly wealth, would thank the Lowland Republics for that in due course. When ransacked they would sponsor the invasion of some other countries, maybe other continents.
Telescoping down to personal considerations, the big question was: did Julius want to turn back and be a part of that, to await, albeit in comfort, the arrival of the inevitable in the form of the French?
Answer: no. Or NO! If the French were fore-destined it was better to go meet them now, on his own terms, at a time of his choosing. Which, however weirdly, meant his thoughts coincided with Ada’s.
Which in turn meant his thoughts must be wrong, though he couldn’t quite see how at this moment.
Therefore he cast about for other options. How about home?
That thought provoked a bitter laugh. Leaving aside the country-wide outlawry notice on him, the Helvetic Republic contained too many memories of murdered family. The first Lazaran of all had not only deprived him of kin but indirectly of Fatherland too. Even a Swiss firing squad was preferable to a moment’s actual residing and reflection there.
Which just left going forward. Which implied crossing the forsaken front-line before them. Which was impossible save for an army—and a army careless of its men’s lives at that.
Ada was still waiting for his response. She must have sensed he was at a cross-roads, for she never normally waited for anyone.
If it was going to be done, it was best done quick and get it over with. Frankenstein drew deep breath.
‘Upon reflection,’ he said with finality, ‘I see that you are right. France it must be.’
When she wanted, Lady Lovelace could fake sincerity like no other. She also thought she knew which strings made Frankenstein dance.
‘Well, that is where the ‘escape and adventure’ I promised you lies...,’ she said, in warm, welcome-home-prodigal-son, tones.
Julius only heard half of it: the ‘promised you lies’ bit: which happened to be the true portion, so he didn’t protest.
Thus are decisions made. Yet Frankenstein was still distracted, pondering whether he should tell all. About his terrifying vision.
It only took a further second. Being here, in this horrible place, emboldened him. Here, where so many lives had been thrown away like they were nothing, or less than nothing, put his own petty story into perspective. Why was he making such heavy weather of living a mere three-score years and ten, if you were lucky? One way or the other, not a great deal mattered much anyhow...
‘Live your life, Julius’ he told himself.
And so he said:
‘I have this idea....’
Chapter 20: FROM ON HIGH
Several scenes from a bird’s-eye view: an all-seeing, all hearing, but nosey bird, with no regard for people’s privacy.
* * *
‘Well, I think it’s a very bad idea,’ said Foxglove, before passion subsided and he remembered himself. ‘Milady...,’ he added.
‘But very stylish,’ said Frankenstein, knowing it to be a done deal anyway. ‘Bags of style!’
‘Indeed,’ concurred Lady Lovelace, not actually caring a damn about style or any other inessentials, but willing to conscript it to her side. She deemed no more need be said.
Nor need there. Foxglove’s outbursts were few and short (if not sweet), but came from the heart and with the best of intentions. The house-broken bruiser sat back and became like a statue again.
The undisputed good thing was their heading away from the terrible trenches. Less unanimous was their trajectory to the Free City of Luxembourg: as ‘agreed’—but only after argument and Julius putting his foot down. Deplored by all was the fact of their new inseparable companion.
The sinister sealed coach followed them at a discreet distance.
* * *
It had shown up not long after they arrived at the former frontline viewing point. Frankenstein noticed it directly and long before the others would. Products of their relatively happy national history, the English tended to be less skittish on such scores than continentals.
He’d let his companions in on the news directly after the great ‘what-next?’ debate. Ada had queried why they had to go all the way to Luxembourg to catch a France-bound galloon? ‘The Belgians have them too you know’ she’d said.
‘Because of that,’ Julius answered succinctly. With a flick of the thumb he indicated their new companion. ‘No, don’t turn round: they’re watching us. Just be aware we have company and act innocent.’
Foxglove complied by not looking at all, but Ada could not be deterred from a slow motion turn. Eventually, the second coach came into Lady Lovelace’s peripheral vision.
‘Mere sight-seers, like us,’ she decreed. ‘A young couple; honeymooners I shouldn’t won
der...’
Save in dire need, it wasn’t Foxglove’s style to gainsay his mistress, but there remained a range of euphemisms he could deploy.
‘Possibly, milady, possibly...,’ he said. ‘But a battlefield’s an unlikely port of call for a nuptial pair, don’t you think? Hardly what you’d call romantic...’
‘The couple are just cover,’ Frankenstein confirmed. ‘Others remain inside. I saw sunlight flash upon a perspective glass...’
Acting like he’d had enough for one outing, Frankenstein casually sauntered back to their own coach driver. He was going to ask if the newcomer was known to him, but the man’s nervy demeanour resolved the matter without words.
By the time Julius returned Lady Lovelace had considered and concurred.
‘Who would have thought,’ she said in wonderment, ‘that the Belgians even had a secret police?’
Frankenstein was amused.
‘The Ancien Regime is over,’ he informed her. ‘The State now stands in for God. What other choice do the poor Belgians have but to conform? Welcome to modernity, madam.’
Lady Lovelace took that compressed lesson away to digest in silence. For once she didn’t mind being lectured. The broad sweep of history be damned: the main thing was that she’d got her way. There’d be no more caveats from Ada—not till the next gap between want and have opened up anyway.
So, Luxembourg it was. And urgently, before the Belgians’ fully justified curiosity evolved into something worse.
‘Mr Tell’ and company set off and, a token while after, the second coach set off after them.
* * *
When he heard of it some days later, Talleyrand was delighted that his corps de ballet of spies, some deliberately conspicuous like the ‘Belgian’ coach, others invisible as air, had restored contact. Up till then he’d feared that circumstances beyond control, such as that inconsiderate stormy sea, might have taken Lady Lovelace and entourage from him. To hear otherwise made him clap two lace-fringed hands together and bestow such a charming smile upon the messenger. Later that same evening and for the same reason, a roadside beggar had his life changed forever by a bag of golden guineas cast from Talleyrand’s carriage.
That the (comparatively) innocent Belgian Republic got blamed for his scheming would have been sweet sugar icing on Talleyrand’s cake of deep joy—but sadly he never knew that.
Nevertheless, the Prince was well content with his present level of informedness. To aspire beyond that was to trespass into territory reserved for the Almighty alone: wherefore he humbly withdrew. The excommunicated former Bishop and serial turncoat had many mortal sins on his charge sheet (including those the Church said ‘Cried Out to Heaven for Vengeance’), but blasphemy was not amongst them. The man Emperor Napoleon had described as ‘shit in a silk stocking’ was far too fly to offend the Omnipotent.
‘Tell our people to play them out a little more rope,’ he instructed his agent. ‘There’s not quite enough to hang themselves yet.’
Chapter 21: WE CAN SEE YOU
Surveying another cathedral (save this one was still open for business) Frankenstein and Lady Lovelace and Foxglove behaved like they were family plus flunky passing through on a ‘Grand Tour.’ Devotees of high culture ticking off inspirational architecture on their list.
In Luxembourg the disguise was quite plausible—albeit these particular ‘tourists’ somewhat less so. A unscrubable whiff of ‘post-apocalypse’ hung about Julius and co., whereas residual pre-Promethean War normality lingered in the City. The French hadn’t incorporated the place when they boiled through during the ‘Great Breakthrough,’ but instead respected (after a fashion) the rule of its Prince-Bishop. Of course, it had been pillaged down to its underwear, even (or especially) the Churches, but in theory there remained a self-governing city; one of the patchwork of petty states and historical accidents that collectively comprised Germania. Once the war went east and then global, Luxembourg was left behind and got on with its own business unmolested. For the time being.
In the contemporary lottery of life that was no mean achievement anywhere. On their way in, Frankenstein and friends had received yet another unsolicited crash course in present-day harsh realities. The statelets traversed were silently instructive—but not in the sense they once graced the itinerary of every Grand Tour: as aesthetic academies and/or fun stays. Now, those not physically ravaged by war were indirectly so. Denuded of male citizens (all either dead or in arms or both), Lazarans kept the show going—or limping—along. Resurrected people drove—or, more often, hauled—the ploughs. Death and the scent of ‘serum’ hung over all.
Hence it had been a depressing trip. Shepherded by their shy ‘Belgian’ shadow, they saw only vistas of civilisation visibly in retreat.
Which was why Luxembourg was such a tonic. If only by contrast as a haven of prosperity and home to myriad still-warm humanity. Not only that, but crucial to Ada’s aims, it still boasted a civilian aerodrome.
That had been a sleepy little facility before ‘History’ intruded; catering mainly to the Prince-Bishop’s Episcopal progresses. Changing geo-political imperatives altered all that. Now it was quite a hub. The party were biding their time before heading for its hubbub.
One of the ‘day-one’ acts of French Conventionary Government in all its conquests was to nationalise every aircraft. They couldn’t for the life of them see why mere civilians should gallivant in the sky whilst the class struggle hung in the balance below. And besides, there was the danger of aristocrats and other enemies of the People escaping that way. Instead, collaring the collective national fleet, they used them to rain bombs and air-mobile columns of revolutionaries on their enemies. Zeal and sheer elan carried them halfway across Europe—till the trenches rendered both qualities irrelevant—and suicidal.
Later, when revolutionary ardour cooled and the wars turned gutty, there was even less justification for jaunts and fun. With the rainbow-hued vessels of Europe’s leisured classes long since confiscated and painted grim, and the factories unable to keep up with war losses, those merchants without contacts in the Convention or money for bribes lost their galloon fleets too. Which plunged Europe’s economy further into free-fall recession—though with the happy by-product of creating unemployment just when the army desperately needed fresh flesh. The leaders of the Revolution congratulated themselves on killing two birds with one stone.
All of which is to explain why tricoloured galloons criss-crossing Luxembourg’s airspace, locating their position via the Cathedral’s spire, had become such a familiar sight as to be invisible to the natives. No one pointed any more. Not that it was anyone’s business noting their conqueror’s ways in any case: open curiosity often came at a cost…
Because, in a paradoxically un-revolutionary way, the Convention set great store by its material possessions: aerodromes included. For instance, it was common knowledge what happened to Budapest when its French air facilities were sabotaged by guerrillas. Now there was neither a Buda or a Pest beside the Danube, and the puppet ‘Revolutionary Protectorate of the Magyars’ was casting around for a new capital.
But Frankenstein had no such concerns: here wasn’t his homeland. Indeed, it could be said he no longer had such a thing. Here in Luxembourg—or anywhere else—he was free to look up at the crowded skies, drink in the scene, and be careless of consequences.
The Luxembourgeois saw things differently. They saw that wisdom lay in averting your eyes and cultivating your own garden whilst you still had one. Plus adopting the positive attitude of gladness it was only war-supplies the vessels above deposited on their soil, not bombs.
That culture of denial suited Frankenstein and playmates down to the ground—which, coincidentally, was also the direction most Luxembourgeois cast their gaze when they met foreign eyes.
All in all perfect conditions for a conspiratorial meeting: circumstances conspiring in their favour for once. Away from their hotel’s walls-with-ears, surrounded by the devout coming in or out, plus the huck
sters that preyed upon them, Luxembourg Cathedral was an answer to plotters’ prayers.
The ‘Belgian Secret Police’ had been successfully left at the border. Frankenstein felt they were now free to worry about other things.
‘Ready?’ he asked, meanwhile pointing out some blameless gargoyle as if that was the topic of discussion.
‘As we’ll ever be,’ replied Foxglove. And I still say it’s a very bad idea...’
Ada playfully smacked her servant’s arm.
‘Oh, hush you!’ she admonished, but gently by her standards. Lady Lovelace was thoroughly enjoying this lark. She kept checking her appearance in her powder compact mirror, making needless minor adjustments to hat or hair. This was her biggest transformation since rising from the grave and she was growing to like it.
‘I wish you’d stop doing that,’ said Julius. ‘Try to act in role.’
Ada carried on regardless.
‘Who’s to say it isn’t?’ she countered sweetly.
A good point. Frankenstein moved on.
‘You have all the baggage?’ he asked Foxglove.
‘All that you’ve permitted us, sir.’
‘And the rest?’
‘In the hotel privy pit, weighted down to sink.’
‘Are you sure? No coat or trinket donated to charity?’
‘At your insistence, sir, I resisted the urge.’
‘Good. We must leave no trace here. And the hotel bill?’
‘Paid in full, plus an generous gratuity.’
‘Excellent.’
Lady Lovelace tutted.
‘No it isn’t. It’s very un-excellent. That was waste. It’s not as if we’re ever coming back here...’
Frankenstein brooked no dissent. Here was his time and plan.
‘We leave no spoor and likewise no pursuit,’ he said magisterially. ‘We shall shortly have enough problems without risking an outraged innkeeper. His shrieks as he chased us down the street for a few francs would ruin all.’
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